


Into Morning

by noelia_g



Series: Night Lights [2]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 16:52:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noelia_g/pseuds/noelia_g





	Into Morning

The sounds of the party are not that obnoxious here on the balcony, muffled by the distance and glass. Jim glances at his watch impatiently, counting. Just twenty minutes since the party started, not nearly enough for him to leave, especially since the host himself hadn't arrived yet. Which was mostly why he was hid… well, not really hiding, as such, but it was why he was here, on the balcony, unlit cigarette between his fingers. As much as he usually complained about being dragged to all the galas and benefits, Bruce's presence at least made them bearable.

Of course, that was based on the assumption that Bruce had actually bothered to show up to his own party. And yes, Jim did realise he was being rather uncharitable with this line of thoughts, as all the absences had been more than justified, and every late arrival made sense, even if it was just to uphold the flaky billionaire persona, but that left Jim to his own devices, and in conversations with the members of the City Council, small talk he couldn't really avoid, and only champagne to drink, and he really, really didn't like champagne.

The air is heavy and almost still, evening not bringing any release from the heat wave that has taken over Gotham in the recent days. It's unprecedented, and the talking heads on tv blame the global warming, and Jim finds it slightly refreshing from all the other things that people complain about, as all the other things are blamed on Batman. Jim tugs at his tie uncomfortably; months had passed, getting closer to a year, and nothing had changed, nothing he could use to exonerate the man, and he is really ready to pounce at any chance.

"There is air conditioning inside, you know."

Jim doesn't turn, and doesn't jump startled either, he's not that easily caught off balance nowadays, much to Bruce's disappointment. Jim can swear, the man was actually amused whenever he was able to scare Jim out off another few years of his life. "It's not that bad out here."

Bruce nods slowly, as if he doesn't believe a word of it, joining him in leaning against the railing, emptying his champagne flute in a swift move. Jim's gaze follows the liquid pointedly. "Someone's going to sue you one day, when it lands on their head."

"In this heat, it will evaporate before it reaches even the tenth floor," he shrugs, taking off his jacket, index finger edging the inside of his collar. And yet, the shirt is still crispy white, and Jim takes a moment to marvel at that fact, one of the world's greatest wonders. "Besides, not like I can't afford the eventual lawsuit."

Gordon frowns at the flat tone, and searches Bruce's face. He reaches out, fingers gently brushing the back of Bruce's hand, the wrists, the cuffs of his shirt, pushing the material up his forearms. It's all the skin he dares to touch within the view of the people inside; the glass might be tinted, but it still allows for anyone who walks close enough to see them.

Bruce's hand covers his, fingers tightening, and at the same time, as if by a pull of some invisible string, Bruce's body relaxes just a bit, the tension Jim hadn't even realised was there easing. He shakes his head at the unspoken question. "Just a long day."

"For whom?" Jim asks, and a small smile tugs at the corner of Bruce's mouth.

"I'm pretty sure Bruce Wayne doesn't have bad days," he mutters, and Jim nods.

"Then he wouldn't need me to ask if I could do anything to make it better?"

The smile becomes more real, softer, and yet predatory in that way that Jim swears only Bruce can actually pull off. Honestly, Jim hadn't even meant it in that way. Well, fine, not only in that way. Bruce's fingers move to Jim's wrist, just skimming over the pulse point, and this is enough to send ripples of arousal through his body.

"Not the best moment," he mutters, even though he's pretty sure he doesn't sound at all convincing, not the way he's voice is breaking. "And definitely not the best place."

"I could have them gone in two minutes," Bruce says, and somehow, his lips are much closer to Jim's ear than Jim expected, he can feel the warm breath on his neck. "Hell, I don't think I'd even have to torch the place, this time."

Jim almost laughs, but it comes out drawn out and breathless, and strangely resembling a groan. "One day, you're going to tell me the story behind that one," he says, and reluctantly shakes his head. "And I don't think your reputation needs another blow like this." He hadn't even finished the sentence when he finds himself guided backwards, maneuvered towards the wall.

"You really shouldn't have used that word," Bruce whispers against the skin of Jim's neck, as he's pushed against the wall, Bruce reaching around him to switch something on a panel, and Jim wonders briefly, how many of those are really hidden around here?

"Which word? Reputation?" he smirks. The balcony windows tint further, he can still see the people inside, but is pretty sure they can't see out now. Probably.

"Blow," Bruce says, sinking to his knees.

He really shouldn't have used that word. "Can they..." he takes a breath to calm his voice down when Bruce reaches inside his pants, "Can they see us?" It might be a rather dense question at this point, but his thought processes are never at their finest when Bruce Wayne is getting ready to suck him off.

"Depends. Would you like them to?" The tone is conversational, casual, and enough to have Jim throw his head back in a soundless moan, reaching out to run his fingers through Bruce's hair, resting them on the back of his head as Bruce moves forward, taking him into his mouth.

Jim bites his lip; he's never been very vocal during sex, but just the necessity of keeping quiet now makes him want to scream. It's mad, and he should stop, should move away and straighten his clothes, and wait till the end of the party, and move to the safety of Bruce's bedroom... But moving away is difficult, when you're pressed hard against the wall, and can't form a coherent thought because your brain has apparently melted.

He rests his other hand flat on the glass, for balance, sheen of sweat covering his skin, his body shaking with soft tremors as he empties himself into Bruce's welcoming mouth.

Everything stills for a moment, and Jim leans lightly against the glass, cold against his skin, muffled sounds of music and mundane conversations getting through the ringing in his ears. "I don't think it counts as me helping with making your day better," he offers after a longer moment, his voice low and coarse.

"Oh, I don't know, I think it's looking up," Bruce says suggestively, before placing a gentle kiss on Jim's thigh, then moving to stand up, shifting closer to Jim. Droplets of sweat glisten on his neck, and Jim is ridiculously proud of that, of spoiling the immaculate look, of being able to run his hand through Bruce's hair again, messing them up.

In turn, Bruce reaches out, fingers brushing the side of Jim's face, thumb softly passing against his lips, his mustache, then the appearing smile. Jim shifts, undoing Bruce's tie, working the shirt buttons open as he gently pushes Bruce against the glass. "And how can I make it better?" he trails the line down Bruce's neck with his mouth and tongue, at the same time tugging Bruce's shirt out of his pants, pushing his hands up Bruce's sides.

"That would be a good way," Bruce says softly, tilting his head to capture Jim's mouth with his, licking at their corner, then tracing the bottom lip with his tongue before Jim responds with a rough kiss, shifting even closer, moving his hand to work Bruce's pants open, taking him out and stroking lazily.

"It's a start anyway," Jim shrugs, biting Bruce's shoulder. Through the glass he can see people moving across the room, completely oblivious of what goes on just behind the glass, of the soft sounds Bruce starts to make as Jim's hand begins to move just a bit faster, but not close enough to get him to come just yet.

"Jim..." Bruce starts, low and almost pleading, and Jim silences him with a bruising kiss, speeding up a little bit more, waiting. He doesn't have to wait long, just until they come back for air.

"Jim," it's a whisper now, breathed out against his lips, it's not a plea, it's dangerously close to a prayer.

"Bruce," he mutters back, equally reverent, mouth to mouth, as his fingers tighten, and his hand moves faster, and Bruce launches into another kiss, one that again feels like a scream.

It's minutes before they calm down, breathing even again, as they sit on the balcony's floor, leaning against the cold glass, Bruce's hand still on Jim's thigh.

"I don't think we can get back to the party," Bruce offers conversationally, and Jim barks a laugh. Not in his pants stained like this, no, he doesn't think so.

"I can live with that, and not going to complain too much, if that's what you're worried about," he says mock-seriously.

"Yes, that's precisely what I was thinking. I hope you'll manage somehow. I'll make it up to you, though."

"Oh?

Bruce smirks, tilting his head. "Next Saturday, a party in your honour?"

Jim rolls his eyes, and makes an effort to swat Bruce's shoulder pointedly. "Do that, and you can forget about any repeats of recent activities."

"Blackmail, Commissioner? That's very low."

He shrugs, and takes a moment to consider Bruce's face, the gaze not as covert as he'd like it to be, as Bruce just raises his eyebrows at him. "I'm fine, Jim," he says.

No, he's not. But it will do for the moment, and Jim nods. "How long till the end of the party?"

"Depends when Alfred realises we're gone and starts on kicking the guests out."

"Kicking out? Alfred?" Jim has to admit, he'd actually pay to see that.

"Very politely," Bruce concedes. "Give or take an hour. Why?"

"Just wondering what we're going to do to pass the time."

"We'll figure something out, I suppose," Bruce smiles.

 

Another thing about the recent heat wave Jim isn't accustomed to, is waking up in a room filled with sunlight. The fact that Bruce's bedroom has an entire wall of windows is only strengthening the effect. He closes his eyes again, and takes a moment, enjoying the warmth on his skin. It will turn into a frying pan later in the day, but the mornings are nice, especially the mornings started in silk sheets, with Bruce's arm thrown over his stomach, Bruce's even breath tickling his neck.

"Good morning, Master Gordon," comes from the doorway in the already familiar crisp British tone, and Jim doesn't startle, and doesn't fluster. He used to, in the early days of...well, this, but now he just idly wonders how on earth Alfred always knows when he wakes up, and always has breakfast ready by this time.

"Good morning, Alfred," he says, and carefully moves Bruce's hand away, and sits up, reaching for his glasses from the night table.

Bruce mutters something inaudible, that sounds a little like 'nocturnal', and shifts to the other side. Jim glances at Alfred, who's smiling slightly, tilting his head as he places the tray on the bedside table. It's not the first morning like this, and Jim's not the only one to find Bruce's reactions to sunlight amusing.

As Alfred makes his way out, stopping just to pull the curtains even more open, eliciting a groan of protest from Bruce, Jim reaches to poke Bruce's shoulder. "Morning."

"Middle of the night," Bruce protests, burying his face in the pillow.

It calls for the stronger incentive, Jim supposes. He reaches to pick up a coffee cup from the tray, and brings it closer to Bruce's nose. Alfred's coffee is nothing short of divine. Quite probably worth selling your soul for. Bruce's nose twitches, and he opens one eye. "That's low."

Jim waits, holding the cup until Bruce snorts, and pulls himself up, reaching for it. "That might be the case, yes. It always works, though."

Bruce doesn't dignify it with an answer, just glances at him over the rim of the cup. It could be called a glare if anyone could summon a glare while drinking Alfred's coffee. No one can. Jim just smiles back, and pushes his glasses up his nose, opening the paper, and reaching for his own cup.

At first, he didn't feel comfortable with this, the whole breakfast in bed idea, the morning paper. It took Bruce a while to convince him to enjoy it, and it took some rather dirty tricks to keep him in bed past six am. Not that he minded the choice of said dirty tricks. Quite the opposite. But the slight discomfort remained for a while, and even now it felt a little strange. Thankfully, he got over the first impulse to bury himself under the covers and pretend to not be there when Alfred comes in.

He studies the newspaper, taking a long look at the first page's headline and turning it over quickly. "It's the hottest summer in the last fifty years, apparently."

"You don't say," Bruce mutters, and looks into his coffee cup, as if wondering where had all the coffee gone.

"And apparently, you disappearance last night suspiciously coincided with an up-and-coming pianist Joanna Johnson's leaving the party. Inquiring minds want to know if there's a bigger story there."

"Inquiring minds can go stuff themselves," Bruce suggests pleasantly, and looks pointedly at Jim's coffee. "Are you drinking that?"

"Yes."

Bruce sighs, and makes an expression strangely resembling a pout. Jim almost laughs, then reaches to take Bruce's cup out of his hands, and pours half of his coffee into it. Bruce smiles his thanks, taking the cup back, fingers brushing Jim's, then downs the coffee in one go. Jim just rolls his eyes and then turns them back to the newspaper.

"I'm never sure whether I'm glad no one notices that my disappearances coincide with yours, or insulted by it."

"Be glad," Bruce mutters, and looks at him pointedly. "So, what's the bad news?"

"Excuse me?" Jim tries, and probably doesn't quite manage to keep the surprise convincing.

"First page. You only skip it when the news are really bad. So, what is it?"

Jim sighs. He's never been a very good liar, and he's never been any good at bluffing either, and even when he had learned to at least keep his expression straight and unmoving, he still wasn't going to win any poker games any time soon. And keeping anything from Bruce was bordering on impossible.

"It's not exactly news, if it's not true," he mutters, and folds the newspaper back, revealing the first page, big block font accusing Batman of a series of violent murders in the last few weeks.

"We should look into that," Bruce says, his voice level and even. He has an excellent poker face. "Two could be a coincidence, and the heat wave brings the insane out of people more than usual, but it's escalating too quickly."

"Bruce," he says, placing the empty cup on the table.

"Jim?"

Honestly, sometimes the eyeroll is not only justified, but entirely necessary. He goes through his mental list of things to say, things he wanted to say for a while now. It's been almost a year since their great lie, and back then, Jim assumed it was to be temporary, just until they figure it all out. But the time had passes, and nothing had changed, and he's tired of this all, and if he is tired, then Bruce must be exhausted. He is even more tired of not saying anything, and off all the 'I'm fines' he hears.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, and pushes his glasses back up. "We'll look into it," he says, and tells himself off for being a coward.

Bruce nods, and folds the newspaper in half, reaching over Jim to place it on the table along with his cup. "I'll see what I can find and get back to you," he pauses, inches away from Jim's face, studying his expression thoughtfully. "Don't."

"Bruce," he says again, and is slightly irritated at his inability to keep his voice unshaken. Bruce reaches out to take his glasses off, fold them carefully and put them aside, leaning to rest his forehead against Jim's, closing his eyes.

"Don't," he repeats, and it's not forceful, and it's not loud, but it resonates throughout Jim's body, even though it's just whispered against his lips. Jim closes his eyes as well, his breathing already hastened. "Don't say anything," Bruce mutters, lips brushing Jim's, and this is the whole point, Jim thinks, as if saying it out loud would make it more real, make it more painful.

He doesn't say anything, the only sound leaving his mouth is a low sigh as Bruce's lips cover his, soft and determined. It's not the way to work this out, he knows, but it's a way, and right now, when Bruce's tongue coaxes his mouth open, he has hard time remembering why it's not the best one. Bruce tastes strongly of coffee, not surprisingly, and Jim deepens the kiss, reaching to rest his hand on the back of Bruce's neck. He can feel the faint echo of the pulse under the palm of his hand.

Bruce shifts closer, moving his leg over Jim's, his whole body relaxing, molding into Jim's, as if trying to get closer than it's physically possible. Bruce's fingers tighten on Jim's shoulder, short fingernails leaving faint red crescents on his skin. They'll fade soon, but for the moment, Jim welcomes them, it's a sign, however minute, that Bruce isn't quite as fine as he pretends to be. That he needs this, needs Jim, and however low, it's a heady feeling, almost intoxicating, to be the one needed.

"Jim..." it's both a plea and a demand, as Bruce bows his head, Jim's name whispered against his neck. Jim throws his head back, the line of his neck exposed, and Bruce trails it down with his tongue, his teeth. The mark he leaves down on Jim's neck, on the edge of his collarbone, will last longer, will be there through the day, and tomorrow. That's something.

The covers slipped off them, but even just the cotton and silk of the underwear make too much layers now. Jim's fingers search for the waistline of Bruce's boxers, clumsily he tries to push them down, off. Bruce moves, trying to help as much as he can, but they mostly just interrupt each other, their hands tangling between them, brushing against skin and material, and Bruce groans, teeth scraping Jim's neck, and it's enough to make Jim's hips twitch, pushing closer, needing more.

"Jim," Bruce says again, as if it was the only thing he remembers, the only thing he holds on to. He kneels above Jim, straddling his thighs, his body bowing forward, tense and expectant, as his lips rest on Jim's forehead for a moment, before his fingers run through Jim's hair, tilting his head back. They're moving in sync now, the same rocking motion, designed to bring them as close as possible, as close as one can be to another without piercing skin, without spilling blood, even though it's too late for such qualms.

"Not close enough," Jim mutters matter-of-factly, and startles at the sound of his own voice, hoarse and rough. Bruce nods, eyes wide and glazed over, the same intense desire reflected in him.

The mood shifts, as if they passed the invisible barrier, and maybe they did somehow, because there's only one way to go now, and they both know. There's no discussion, no banter they're accustomed to sharing before this takes place, no carefully formed questions of who, how. Jim leans against the headboard, steading himself, Bruce shifting closer again, spreading his legs just a little bit wider on Jim's sides. Their cocks rub against each other, and Jim bites his lips to keep himself from groaning loudly, bites just hard enough to taste copper. Not yet, he thinks, and tries to talk himself out of coming so soon. Not yet, not before what they both need, not before this.

He reaches to steady Bruce's hips, hand on each side. Bruce leans forward again, licking at the small droplets of blood gathering on Jim's lower lip. It tingles, as if numb and vibrant at the same time, and Jim moans softly, the sound licked off along with blood, resonating deep in Bruce's throat as a hoarse groan.

"Jim."

It's almost insane, how different his name can sound every time Bruce says it, or whispers it with reverence, and it sounds like a prayer, and it sounds like everything. His hands move almost on their own, gentle caress down Bruce's sides, then up again, then back. Each journey, his fingers move closer to the spot, over the low of the small of Bruce's back, then lower. At some point, Bruce just huffs impatiently, and moves into the kiss again, and this time it's rough and demanding and messy, teeth and tongue, and Jim has to fight back, give as good as he gets.

He moves his hand, finally, just the tip of his finger, but it's enough to make Bruce flinch and shudder, and move closer still. The drawn out sounds he makes sound just like Jim's name, over and over again, but it's hard to tell over the ringing in Jim's ears, as Bruce reaches out, fingers tightening around Jim's cock, every stroke brushing his own in passing. It's almost too much, or it's just enough, and Jim can't think, can't even make out Bruce's face through the haze, all he can do is close his eyes, and push in, just that little bit more, and it's enough. Bruce's hand moves faster, without rhythm now, just abandon, and then the world moves, or stands still, Jim can't tell the difference, but he's spinning, light exploding before his eyes.

Everything is still then. Just the sound of two heartbeats, racing, two breaths slowly calming down from the high. Bruce moves gently, not quite making it to his side of the bed, half-drapped over Jim, his face buried in Jim's neck.

Jim waits until his breathing is even again, or as even as it's likely to get after this, and shifts to place a dry kiss on the closest patch of Bruce's skin, which just happens to be his forehead.

"I guess I should call in late. I'll probably won't be able to move until lunch."

Bruce chuckles warmly, lips moving over Jim's skin. "Oh, good. We have a lunch date planned anyway."

There's something else Jim wants to say, but the words don't quite form on his lips. That's alright, for now, he thinks. It can wait.

 

The main problem with Jim's filing method of choice - Any Available Surface, pile it up until it threatens to fall over - is that at some point it got really impossible to find the right files. He usually remembers where he put the crime scene photos, or witness statements, but when it comes to quarterly financial reports, it's a great mystery.

He pokes at the papers on his desk, then shifts a few piles absently, slightly hoping he had actually lost the report, and won't be forced to deal with it today. Unfortunately, he finds it, under a thin layer of dust, and the kids' postcards. Well, Jimmy's postcard, and Babs' long, detailed letter of everything happening at the computer camp. He got lost the moment she started explaining what they've been learning, but he supposes it's only the beginning. In the last phonecall Barbara started talking about Babs' college choices, of all things, and wasn't this a bit too early? Or a lot too early? But at least the things had been rather civil, between him and Barbara, and she even asked how he was doing, and it seemed like she really wanted to know. He knows she's seeing someone, Babs spilled this one, but they're not in the place where he can ask, yet. He's not telling her about Bruce either, after all.

Of course, he's not telling anyone about Bruce. Or Batman. Or countless other things, most of them pertaining to Batman, and how exactly Jim gets most of his intel and evidence. He's becoming slightly tired of this, of having to hide things and occasionally even lie and fake paperwork. The faking paperwork part is the most annoying, as filling it with true data is tiresome enough, he doesn't need to think on getting his non-facts straight, thank you.

These days, it seems like half of his work is to conceal the other half of his work. And it's not even that he doesn't trust his people, because after a year of cleaning out the department, of reviewing and checking and rechecking, he is almost certain he ended up with good men and good cops. And that's the whole problem, because none of them would hesitate before doing the right thing, and for them, the right thing is hunting down the vigilante known as Batman.

On bad days, he really doesn't see how this situation can end in anything other than a complete disaster. On good days, he hopes they'll manage to clear Batman's name before that one mistake is made and Batman gets caught, or worse. It would be nice if the good days outnumbered the bad.

His phone rings, and he spends a moment looking for it, just to discover it under a folder he had been looking for about half an hour ago and never found. "Gordon," he says, and listens to a long explanation. It arrives at the important part, the one that has him almost jumping out of his chair, reaching for his coat and attempting to pull it on one-handed. Batman sighting. "I'll be right there."

He might be beating his record on traffic violations, getting to the scene in under ten minutes, but he doesn't take chances. They've been lucky so far, Batman avoided capture, and Jim avoided getting fired, or, well, shot, but all it takes is a one bad day, one moment.

"What do we have?" he asks, ducking under the yellow tape, and trying to keep his voice even. Someone hands him a cup of coffee, a little too full, and scorching hot. Another incentive to keep calm, shaking hands would mean scolding himself with burning liquid. He sighs, and takes a sip, thinking he actually misses the days when all he had to worry about were people trying to kill him. It used to be much more simple, then.

"Drug ring, we had our man on the inside, Marsh?" Gordon nods at that, he's familiar with the case, the last report passing his desk just yesterday. "He's been made, before the bust. He's still inside, alive, last time we heard."

"Batman?" Jim asks, eyes fixed on the warehouse.

"Swooped in about fifteen minutes ago. We hadn't heard anything since. Should we..." he starts, and doesn't get a chance to finish, as Gordon is moving forward, handing him the half-empty coffee cup, and passing him by. "Commissioner?"

He can feel the eyes of all his officers worrying into the back of his head, wondering if he had finally went round the bent. He knows most of the gossip circulating around the office, some pity him for trusting Batman before just to have his family threatened, some think him a fool, some ascribe to the latest conspiracy theory (which might be closest to the truth, actually), and some just wait for him to snap and either get himself killed, shoot himself, or shoot someone else. They've all seen enough cops loosing it at the end of a particularly hard day to half expect it.

Fortunately, they also know enough not to question him. After months of working towards it, he actually ended up with a department he can rely on.

The doors aren't locked, which is greatly convenient. It would look mightily stupid, if he had to knock. Of course, no one probably expected anyone to be insane enough to just enter the warehouse, no backup, just his piece, not even pointed but held ready. Oh, well. He had been building up a fine reputation of acting rashly and doing everything his way, this shouldn't really surprise anyone.

Before he even crosses the doorstep, he has four guns drawn at him; nothing less than what he expected. Marsh is tied to a chair, blood dripping down the side of his face from a head wound that looks all too serious for Gordon's liking. Batman is nowhere in sight, and no sign of him ever being here. He isn't really sure if this is a good thing or not.

One of the men lowers his gun a little, either the leader or the spokesman. "So, we're getting serious, if we get the commissioner in our humble abode. How can we help?" he asks pleasantly, and Gordon shrugs.

"I'd like my officer back," he says plainly.

It draws laughs from pretty much everyone but Marsh and the spokesman. The former is on the verge of unconsciousness as it is, and the latter is watching Jim warily, as if he suspects this to be a trick, or a diversion. And God, Jim really hopes it is. Otherwise, he might be in deeper trouble than usual. And yes, he might be extremely insane, to bet this high, to take risks like that, but so far, he had never been disappointed, not in this.

"That's not an option," the man says, much as Gordon expected. "But I'd like to thank you for dropping by and improving our chances on getting out of here. If you could please drop your weapon now."

His voice is even and poised, destined to intimidate in the most dignified manner, as if he was watching too many Bond movies, but it's not as calm as he wants Jim to think, his eyes shift to the side, looking for any sign of Jim's backup.

He's not looking in the right place.

A sense of calm washes over Jim, and he doesn't need to look to know that the Batman is close. He had enough of experience of turning around to see Batman in the shadows, enough of disappearances mid-sentence, to become tuned in to the man's comings and goings. Idly, he thinks there's a really dirty pun there, but he doesn't have time or mind to make it. He smiles.

"Of course," he says, and turns the gun in his hand, fingers grasping the handle so it hangs from his hand, unthreatening. He leans forward, knees bending lightly, one hand raised in defensive gesture. Everything is fine, he wants to convey, he's putting away his gun, nothing to fear, no surprises.

Well, except for this one.

Batman swoops in, typically, in one smooth jump disarming two thugs. Jim's prepared enough to leap to the side, avoiding the bullet fired in shock and not aimed well enough. He draws his own gun, grasps the handle properly, surely, and pulls the trigger, aiming for the right shoulder. The shot, intended for Batman, goes through the ceiling, the shooter falling down, clutching his arm. Jim turns to the fourth man, but he's already on the floor, unconscious.

Jim's mind races, as he makes his way to Marsh. Shots fired are bound to get his men here in the course of seconds. "Go," he tells Batman, checking Marsh's vitals, pressing tightly at the wound to stop bleeding. He frowns, as there's no tell-tale rustle of material behind him, and the presence at the back of his mind doesn't disappear. He glances over his shoulder to see the Bat still standing there. "Go," he repeats. "I'll take care of the rest."

Batman nods curtly, and is gone, once again becoming just a shadow before disappearing completely, right before the doors open, letting in the unit. "Get Marsh out of here, and into the hospital," he orders, stepping back. "Take this four into custody. Secure the building," he adds.

His men probably know all of this, they've seen enough action in this city, but he feels better for saying this. The looks are different now, no longer watchful and considering, but maybe even bordering on impressed. After all, he just took down four armed men, didn't he?

He sighs, and walks out, doesn't stop until he's well outside the zone secured with police tape, until he can lean against his car and breathe. The press used to call him a hero cop, before he became the commissioner. They still do, sometimes. He never really liked it before, but didn't mind, now, he pretty much hates the very term. Half of the things he gets praised for would be downright stupid if he really was doing them all on his own. Things being as they are, he can't even give credit where credit is due. And the trouble is, to be honest, that he's the only one who seems angry about that.

After a moment, he opens the car's door and sits down, his legs still outside on the pavement, his back hunched. He feels for the radio's control and switches it on, listening to the chatter, making sure everything is going smoothly. He learns that Marsh got to the hospital, and that the criminals are on their way to the county, he listens for a while to the reports from the search, and the countdown of drugs found. He waits for this to die down, for the line to slowly switch back to the normal night's reports of joyriding and some deli robbery. Behind him, the police SUVs slowly vacate the scene, only two remaining now.

He reaches for the car keys, fishes them out of his pocket, and doesn't move further, doesn't start the ignition yet, just lets them dangle from his hand, thumb absently running along the keychain. He should get home and get some sleep, and he's not needed on the scene anymore, but frankly, he doesn't really want to move. The night brought a cooler breeze, his shirt no longer clings to him, and he can actually breathe. He closes his eyes, just for a moment.

When he opens them, he's not surprised to see Batman a few steps away, on the edge of the darkest shadow. Annoyed, yes, but not surprised.

"There's still quite a few officers on the scene," he points out, not even bothering to raise his voice. He's too tired for that. "And the crime scene unit is bound to arrive any moment now."

"They won't see me," Batman states, and Jim is close to rolling his eyes. He would, if it required even a fraction less of effort.

"You know," Jim says, more to himself than to be heard, "just once, you could refrain from taking unnecessary risks." He doesn't really mean this, it's not a risk as such, they're far away enough to not be clearly seen from the warehouse's area, and even if anyone looked their way, the Bat has a way of blending into his surroundings that borders on supernatural. What he means is... well, pretty much everything else, and he knows he doesn't have to explain.

There's no answer for a very long moment, and Jim almost expects Batman to disappear into the darkness as he used to do, leaving him mid-sentence, mid-conversation. But things are different now, and Batman stays, and works out the answer.

"One of your men was in danger."

Well, at least it's an answer, if not the answer. Or something that might pass for an answer in a bad light, or in deep shadows.

But right now Jim's too tired to look for the meaning and be charitable, and he shakes his head. "Which made it our business, Bruce. We can deal with those things without you."

The air shifts, and Batman goes completely still, prompting Jim to think on what he said and grimace. He usually knows better, knows to bite his tongue, knows how to keep things separate, but maybe, just maybe, he's tired of this as well. Not tired enough though, to not have his heartbeat speed up, his pulse race, waiting. Batman takes a step forward, moving into the light of the street lantern.

"Jim," he says, hand moving just a fraction of an inch, as if he was to reach out. The distinction blurs further, as it's not Batman's voice this time. "I'm just trying to help."

He nods slightly, even though he really just wants to shake his head. "Oh, I know. But walking into a hostage situation where not only the perps but also the police officers would shoot first, and never get to the questions part... You don't have to do everything."

The answer is so quiet Jim almost doesn't catch it. "Neither do you."

He wants to say a lot of things, he could say a lot of things to that, but nothing that he wouldn't come to regret later.

Slowly, he shifts in the seat, turning to face the wheel. His knees ache, but it's the welcomed pain, one he can concentrate on while he refuses to deal with the sinking feeling in his stomach. He starts the ignition before he shuts the doors, with a little more force than necessary. The car rolls into the street slowly, and Jim can't tear his gaze from the rearview mirror.

For once, he's the one walking, driving, away from the conversation, and good Lord, he really hates it.

 

The first thought Jim has after waking up is that the ceiling seems unfamiliar.

Only after a moment he realises, that it's his own ceiling, in his own bedroom, and that sometime in the night he had shifted to the other side of the bed. The radio clock on his bedside table perks up, in time for the news, and he lies still, listening. Yesterday's event is briefly reported, as PD's success in apprehending several drug dealers. At least the PR is working. No mention of Batman, and Jim pushes down the feeling of disappointment and encourages the one of relief.

An extremely perky weather girl launches into the forecast, predicting colder days, and a chance of rain. Not likely, judging from the clear sky and sunshine outside.

Jim sighs and moves to get up, grimacing just a little at the protesting muscles. Either he's getting old, or he's getting tired. Considering it was the first night in about two weeks that he actually slept through, he thinks he knows the answer.

He pads into the kitchen, and turns the coffee maker on; it won't be as good as Alfred's, but the caffeine dose will do. He drinks it quickly, even though it scolds his lips, but he needs to get showered, get dressed, and get out of his house before he starts thinking of anything but the work day before him.

First order of the day, visit at Gotham Central, rebuilt in record time, even larger than before, funded mostly by Wayne Enterprises, fact not let out to the general public, per Mr Wayne's personal request. Marsh is conscious, and looks rather well, apart from the bandage on his head. Total list of injuries comes up to three broken fingers, two cracked ribs, and a concussion, which, considering, isn't so bad.

"A visit from the Commish, huh?" Marsh welcomes him with a smile. "Now I feel really special."

Jim nods, sitting in the visitor's chair. "Just checking if everything is okay. You took a rather strong blow to the head."

He gets a very slow nod, Marsh holding his gaze steadily. "Yeah. A rather unfortunate thing, too, I passed right out and missed the grand rescue scene. Apparently you took four men singlehandedly, so, thanks." It comes out a little too lightly, but Marsh's expression is completely open and honest. Almost too much so.

"Thank you," he says quietly, and waits before he adds, in his normal tone. "Great work, detective. It's apparently one of the most successful drug busts in the history of this city."

"Good to hear," Marsh says, smiling slightly. "Although, let me tell you, Commish, I wouldn't mind never working undercover again."

It's a pointed sentence, and Gordon tilts his head, considering him. "You're thinking of requesting a transfer?"

"I've heard that the search for Batman has stalled. Maybe I could help there."

There's a hopeful tone to his voice that Jim recognizes instantly, and closes his eyes for a second. It sounds just like Jim felt looking at a mobster chained to a giant light, as if things were changing, as if there was something better coming his way. It hurts, just a little. He nods.

"I'll have you transferred to the task force. But first, you're taking some time off, and I don't want to see you before you get an all clear from the doctors, understood?"

Marsh laughs, hard enough to cough. "Is making a pot and kettle remark going to get me fired?" he asks, and that gets a smile out of Jim.

"Not today," he says, and stands up. "Get well, detective."

Reluctantly, he gets back to his office and the piles of paperwork. They seem even more daunting than yesterday, and sure enough, reports on the events had been added to the heap, along with the preliminary findings of the crime scene unit, and a file on detective Marsh he requested. He doesn't find anything he didn't expect, good record, impressive number of arrests, no complaints. Nothing extraordinary, but maybe there will be.

He sighs, putting the file away. He's not sure if it's fair, to drag the man into this, but he had asked, and Gordon will take any help on this, anything that gets him closer to finishing this charade. And, most importantly, Jim can't always be there, on the scene, in the middle of the action. More often than not, he finds himself buried behind the desk, shifting paperwork around. Part of him really misses being shot at. Yesterday was... well, emotionally exhausting, of course, but it was exciting, too.

He glances at the piles of paperwork, and sets to work, pushing his glasses up his nose tiredly.

Some time later, a quick glance at his watch tells him it's been three hours, he decided he needs a break, and he needs a cup of coffee, as the letters and numbers on the expenses slips start to blur before his eyes. He presses the intercom button to ask his secretary for coffee, but she doesn't respond. With a sigh he gets up and heads out, resigning himself to the crap coffee they have in the vending machine, making a mental note to order a new, better one, which makes coffee that tastes as if it was made from coffee beans, not asphalt.

Outside, he instantly sees the reason for Penny's distraction, and rolls his eyes.

"Mr Wayne, what brings you here?"

Bruce directs the multi-watt smile at him, the obviously fake one. Sometimes Jim wonders why on earth no one seems to see through the facade, it's so overdone, so obvious. But then again, he hadn't either, before it all started, and he knows how easy it is to believe in what you want to see.

"Would you believe I was in the neighbourhood, commissioner?" he asks, grinning widely enough to show off all of his teeth. Jim always wants to ask him if this hurts.

Instead, he just rolls his eyes. "No." Bruce smiles even wider, and apparently yes, it's possible, even if probably defying some laws of physics, or at least anatomic possibilities. "Is it about tickets, again?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, I'm a very considerate driver. No, I have a more important matter to discuss. A fundraiser, commissioner."

Jim gives a fairly convincing, if he is any judge, groan of despair. Then opens the door to his office, and invites Bruce inside, nodding at Penny. "No calls while I argue to be very busy and important."

Penny giggles, and sends one more adoring smile Bruce's way. On a normal day Jim finds her efficient and sensible, it's extremely disconcerting to see her flip her hair and bat her lashes whenever Bruce happens to be around. "Would you like me to bring some coffee 'round, commish?" she asks, and Jim glances at Bruce, then shakes his head.

"No, thank you, Penny," he says, and closes the door behind them.

It's a good thing he does, because the next thing he feels is said doors against his back as Bruce pushes him gently, leaning in for a slow, wet kiss, tongue sliding against Jim's lips impatiently, hands resting on the sides of his face. Jim tilts his head back, his fingers clutching at Bruce's shirt, letting himself relax into the warm body pressed against his. For the moment, he just closes his eyes.

Then, as Bruce moves away a few inches, Jim smiles. "That your new tactic to convince me to come to that fundraiser of yours?"

Bruce laughs. "Oh, you'll going to like this one. It's on my yacht."

"I fail to see what I'm going to like about it," he says dryly.

"It's for the new city-wide security system. I'm sure you've been to the city council meeting on that one."

He has. And he didn't like the proposed changes and budget cuts. He sighs. "CCTV?"

"To begin with," Bruce agrees. "See, I knew you'd like this."

"If I didn't know better, I'd swear you're doing those things just to get me into a tux," he offered wryly, stepping aside and walking to his desk.

"No, just out of it," Bruce shrugs, but there's no feeling in the tease this time. He sighs. "Jim..."

"I talked to detective Marsh today," Jim says quickly, before Bruce starts saying anything more, leading to the conversation he doesn't feel like having. Not now, not today, not here. "He wants in on the task force."

He doesn't have to explain which one. Bruce nods, his mouth setting into a thin line, all business now. "Do you trust him?"

That's a good question, isn't it? Once, Jim would have huffed and exclaimed that Marsh is one of his men, of course he trusts him. It's different now, and he hesitates, shrugging. "How much did you trust me when you broke into my office and held me at stapler-point?"

It doesn't even get him a smirk in response. Instead, Bruce fixes him with a stare intense enough to bring colour to Jim's face, warm up his skin so he feels it burning up. "Completely," Bruce says, simply, his voice low enough to border on the edge of the other one. "As I do now."

It's not true, not really, and Jim wants to point it out, wants to finally be able to say it all, but again; it's not the time, and it's definitely not the place.

"I'll have him transferred when he's back on duty," he says instead, and sits down in his chair, behind the barrier of the desk and the paperwork. From Bruce's expression he knows this has been received loud and clear.

"If you think it's a good idea," Bruce offers, and it's not an agreement, but he's not arguing either. If anything, he seems like he doesn't care, and this, just this, is what pisses Jim off the most; the indifference, as if he doesn't care, as if he gave up on dealing with this, on clearing Batman's name. Well, damn, tough, because Jim didn't. And if Bruce did, then Jim's going to need all the allies he can get.

"It's settled, then," is all he says.

Bruce nods. "The other thing I wanted to ask," he says, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly slumped, and for some unfathomable reason, he seems almost nervous. Jim can't imagine why. "Dinner tonight?"

For a brief defiant moment Jim wants to decline, lie that he has work, or that he's tired and wants a full night of sleep, but he had one already and didn't really like it all that much. And Bruce is still looking at him, and it's one of the moments when his face is completely open and unguarded. "Of course," he says. "My place," he adds, and it says a lot when Bruce doesn't even argue.

"Oh, good, I've been in a mood for take-out for the entire week."

Jim gives him a look. "I can actually cook, you know? Not on Alfred's level, of course, but it's edible."

Bruce nods. "I'm sure," he says, as if he really wasn't. "But cooking takes valuable time that could be spent... otherwise."

This one definitely warrants an eyeroll. "I'll see you later, then," he says, and Bruce smiles.

"Of course, commissioner," he says, opening the door. "And by the way, you've mentioned my tickets..."

"Have a nice day, Mr Wayne," Jim says pointedly, and Bruce salutes him before making his exit. Jim can still hear his voice, chatting to Penny, who titters and flirts. He sighs, and sets down to work through as much paperwork as he can.

 

Right after seven Jim's almost halfway out of his office, when his phone rings, perking up with the ridiculous tune Babs had installed on her last visit. The kids seem to compete in setting him up with the worst possible ringtone in existence. And yet he keeps it up, pretending he has no idea how to change it.

He's greatly tempted to ignore it, and just get home, but, as always, he just ends up sighing and picking up, and upon hearing the Mayor's voice on the line, regretting it. He settles back into his chair, and readies himself for a lengthy discussion on the budget, and why it's already almost all spent, and it's still August, and why the arrest rate is so low, and why the search for Batman isn't turning up anything new.

They have a conversation along these lines pretty much every two weeks or so, and every damn time Jim misses the old days when not only people were shooting at him, but he could occasionally shoot back.

As a result, it's almost dark when he leaves the office, Penny is long gone, and all the desks at the station are manned by the night shift crew. They nod at him without surprise; he is well known for working after hours, it has been true when he was married, when he was divorced, and now that he is... well, not alone, he supposes. There probably is no right definition for this, and he doesn't fancy trying to find one. Thinking too much never did him any good.

When he gets to his house, the lights are on. He had never actually got around to giving Bruce a spare key, but he figured that of all people, Batman was the least likely to let a simple lock stop him from getting where he wanted. And apparently, he wasn't wrong. He walks in, closing the doors behind him and the hinges squeak softly. Bruce looks up from the couch, smiling, and Jim has a strange moment of calm detachment, as if he is watching it from the outside, the scene they make as Bruce stands up, makes three steps to cross the room, his arms sneaking around Jim, mouth trailing down Jim's jaw, warm and wet.

Following the eerie detachment comes that sinking feeling in his stomach, that odd mixture of happiness and dread, and he closes his eyes, leaning into a kiss. Bruce obliges, as always, lips parting with a soft sigh, his fingers already working out the knot on Jim's tie, easing it off with a slick sound. Then, Bruce moves back, and methodically starts on unbuttoning Jim's shirt, his face comically serious and concentrated.

"So, how was work?" he asks, eyes still on the task, and Jim barks a laugh.

"Greatly exciting. Penny got me a new set of manilla folders for my files," Jim mutters, and rolls his eyes at himself. For all the complaining one might think he doesn't really enjoy they quiet days, the lack of madmen terrorizing the city. He does appreciate the calm, he just would prefer it if it didn't come with so much paperwork.

Bruce smirks. "I'm not sure if I can compete with that in the excitement department," Bruce says, pushing Jim's shirt completely off, letting it fall to the floor. "But I'll do my best."

"Oh, I usually find your best quite acceptable," he says, aiming for nonchalant, and arriving at breathless, when Bruce's fingers skim right over the waistband of his pants. Jim catches Bruce's wrist, stills his hand for a second, and they both stop, inches apart, breathing harshly. "I think it's my turn," he says, and shifts, a one-two step reminiscent of the waltz Barbara taught him once, but he never enjoyed waltz as much as he enjoys this.

Bruce's back hits the wall, head thrown back, his throat exposed invitingly. There's something about this gesture, the trust inherent in it, the sheer eroticism of it, that never fails to hasten Jim's breathing.

He thinks briefly on being too old for making out in the hallways, but the bedroom is too far away, and Bruce is here, and Jim can't bring himself to part even for the few seconds it would take to get into the room. Instead, he just moves his body against Bruce's, a near perfect fit, hands brushing clumsily as they both work to get rid of the material separating them.

It's messy and intense, as if they hadn't been together for weeks, not for a day, but this is the only apology they're both ready to give and ready to accept. This close, it's almost easy to forget walking away, it's easy to pretend the anger and disappointment happened to someone else. He groans, deep in his throat, when Bruce reaches out to slowly rub his length, and in return, Jim speeds up his own efforts. It doesn't take long till they're both panting and sliding down to the floor, a heap of limbs, loosely entwined.

"Jim," Bruce starts, voice low and soft, when the cheerful ringtone of Jim's cell cuts him off. Mere seconds later, before either of them reacts, Bruce's phone perks up as well.

"Gordon," Jim says into his phone, after fishing it out from the pile of clothes beside them. He listens to the dispatch officer, and disconnects with a sigh. Bruce has already finished his call, and is putting on his shirt, looking with some dismay at places where buttons should be and are not. "I assume you know, then?" Jim asks, and Bruce nods.

"My computer picked up the police radio chatter."

There's a few things Jim can say to that, starting with how illegal it still is, but he prefers not to concentrate on the material for arguments while he still has his pants off. "You have your computer call you? Of course you do."

Bruce just rolls his eyes, an exasperated expression he doesn't often wear, but Jim has to admit, looks good on him. Not that there is anything that doesn't. "It has the worst timing, though."

"Times like this," Jim mutters, gathering his own clothes and putting them on, "I wish I had listened to my father and became a doctor." He looks up at Bruce's snort. "What?"

"Nothing," Bruce shrugs. "Just that when you're regretting a job that calls you in in the middle of the night, you consider taking up a profession that, well, would call you in in the middle of the night? Peculiar."

"Oh, shut up," Jim mutters, but he's smiling. He also can't find his tie, one of them must have kicked it away at some point. Maybe under the couch?

"And I had the unfortunate pleasure of being on the receiving end of your first aid. And your bedside manner."

"What's wrong with my bedside manner?" Jim asks suspiciously, deciding to go without the tie. It's still too hot for it anyway, no matter what the weather forecasts say about chances of rain.

"Let's see... 'It's not that bad, you may even survive', I think this would be the direct quote."

Really, one day he's going to get stuck in the middle of a Bruce Wayne-caused eyeroll. Bruce, on the other hand, is grinning smugly, and if it would happen that all your knowledge of Bruce Wayne came from tabloids and official tv interviews, for all you know, he is stuck this way. Jim knows better, however, which is partly why he fixes him with a serious glare.

"Bruce, I'm just going to say this once. Don't do anything stupid. It's a police operation, and unless it all gets fubared, you stay out of it. Alright?"

Bruce holds his gaze for a long moment, long enough for Jim to almost reconsider the harsh tone. Almost. "Fine," he says, finally.

Jim nods, slowly, his expression softening; he really can't help it. "Good. Then I'll hope I won't see you there," he adds, as they walk out, and Bruce smiles slightly.

"In any case, I'll see you back here, later." It sounds like a definitive plan, but they both know that Gotham has a knack for interfering with those. Still, it's nice to hope, and nice to have something to look forward to.

They stop at Bruce's car, and Jim raises his eyebrow at this, because for once, it's not over the top and faster than some planes.

Bruce shrugs. "I stole Alfred's. Figured I needed something more discreet."

"Does Alfred know you stole it?"

"Ah, that's the best part. No. This is, I would think, the definition of stealing."

Jim tries not to laugh, as he's already turning to walk to his own car. "When he finds out, I'm not going to back you up. You're on your own."

He's still smiling when he starts the ignition and pulls out of the driveway. The smile lasts him all the way to the yellow tape and the barrier of the police cars at the end of a seemingly peaceful street, brownstones on both sides, then it disappears in a sigh.

Getting out of the car, he nods at Stephens, and those officers he knows. "Are we sure it's him?"

Stephens nods gravely.

Escalating, Gordon thinks, Bruce was right that it was going to fast to be a coincidence. Stephens looks at the building, frowning. "Thanks to your source we were able to get the adress, too bad we're a tad too late." There's a certain emphasis on the 'source', and Jim has the grace to look slightly apologetic. But it's Stephens, and Jim trusts him even with this. "He has the girl inside, from what we were able to determine, probably in the basement. By the description the neighbours gave, she fits the profile, too."

Fantastic. Jim wipes his forehead with his sleeve, both the heat and the stress contributing to the sheen of sweat. "Did you get the shrink?"

They had a psychologist working 'round the clock on this one. Jim didn't trust the psycho-babble at first, but apparently she was dead right even on the look of the house, so maybe there was something to it. Stephens nods. "We called her in, but she lives on the other side of the city, it will take half an hour, at least..." his voice fades, and Gordon grits his teeth. Time. One thing they don't have. None of the previous victims lived long, once he had them.

"Do we..." he stops, and frowns, squinting his eyes as he makes out the shadows around the second floor window. "Idiot," he mutters under his breath. "Fucking idiot."

Stephens glances at him with surprise, but then his gaze follows Jim's, understanding appearing on his face. "Commish," he starts, then pauses, as a shot resounds from inside the house, then another. Jim breaks into a run before the echo dies, and other follow swiftly behind him. They break up inside, securing the floors quietly and efficiently, but Jim heads straight for the basement. He's not sure how he knows where to go, but he knows.

The doors are already kicked open, and the scene at the bottom of the stairs gives him pause. His gaze finds the girl, first, and thank god she's alright. She can't be more than fifteen, her eyes wide and scared, but there's the same look he had seen before, in his own son and daughter, the one where they started to believe it was all over. She's staring into what he first takes for a heap of something or other, but what on closer look turns out to be Batman, crunching on the floor over a body, his leg bent under a frighteningly unnatural angle.

"Is he dead?" Jim asks, and Batman looks up, shaking his head.

"Unconscious. Fell down the stairs."

Gordon nods, his breath calming a little before he realises that not only Stephens, but also three other officers had followed him downstairs, and now are looking at the scene with their guns still drawn. "At ease," he says, and reluctantly, they listen.

He walks the last two steps down, and crouches in front of the girl. "Hello. I'm Jim Gordon. And you are?" he asks, keeping his voice as soft as possible. He can feel the gazes on the back of his head, but only one really makes his skin burn, better than a laser.

"Nicole," she whispers, after three drawn breaths, and he nods.

"Nicole, it's okay. You hear me? It's okay now," he says, reaching to help her stand up. She leans against him, as if her legs weren't supporting her yet, her hand trembling as it rests on his arm. "Stephens, help the lady out. You, too," he glances at the officers briefly. Maybe if he pretends nothing is wrong with this situation, with Gotham's most wanted few inches away and Gotham's commissioner not lifting a finger to arrest him... well, maybe it will all go away.

Yeah, he thought so.

"You heard the commish," Stephens says, and starts walking up the stairs, Nicole throwing a look over her shoulder, at Batman, then at Jim.

Jim forces himself to smile at her. "It's okay, Nicole. Go with detective Stephens, he'll make sure you'll be alright." And, Jim knows, he'll make sure Jim is covered, at least for tonight. Tomorrow, he'll deal with it. Somehow. He still has no idea what he's going to do, but he'll figure it out, he has to.

With a sigh, he turns to Batman. "What the hell were you thinking?" he asks, and can't even be bothered to keep his voice steady. He's mildly surprised that it comes out less furious, and just... tired. God, he's really tired, of all of this.

"Jim," he starts, standing up, and Gordon shakes his head.

"No. No, you don't," he says forcefully, then looks down, at the way Batman is holding himself up, favouring one leg, and closes his eyes for a moment. "Later," he adds, and steps forward, reaching out, waiting for Bruce to let himself be helped out. After a moment of pause, he does.

 

The car ride is almost unbearably quiet. Jim's half tempted to turn the radio on, but he can't bring himself to tear his hands away from the steering wheel, which he's gripping too tightly.

He spends half of the time with his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror instead of keeping them on the road, and so the sound of the first raindrop on the windshield comes off incredibly loud. The first drop is quickly joined by others, a steady staccato working up to a storm. He speeds up, thinking that for once, the forecasts were right, who knew.

Bruce is silent, too, more so than usual, and it's a feat, considering. His eyes follow Jim's every move, watchful, steady, disconcerting. On any other day Jim might find it... well, no. On any other day it would be just as annoying, but today, it falls on a ready layer of anger.

He stops the car as close to his doors as possible without going through the wall, and turns to look at Bruce. "Can you walk?" he asks, and gets a curt nod in response. He snorts humorlessly. "Is this the same as all 'I'm fine's?" he asks, and Bruce grimaces. Ah, an expression, at last.

"I can walk," he says, and Jim nods, then gets out of the car, and into the apartment, not looking back. He leaves the doors open and, seconds later (longer than it should take, the leg must be hurt pretty bad), Bruce staggers in, trying not to show the discomfort. Jim takes a moment to carefully close and lock the door, then get the first aid kit from the bathroom. The actions are mechanical, well practiced by now, and he doesn't have to think about what he's doing. And that's a good thing, because under the litany of swear words his mind keeps repeating, he doesn't think he has any coherent thoughts at the moment.

By the time he gets all the necessary things and comes back to the living room, Bruce has already situated himself on the couch and removed most of the suit. And on any other day this very image, Bruce's eyes still surrounded by the dark paint, his hair messed up, looking lost and weary, would ease the tight feeling in his stomach, but now he just clings to the anger, afraid something inside him may break if he doesn't.

"It's not broken," Bruce says, almost defensively, and Jim nods, setting the supplies on the coffee table and kneeling down beside the couch to have a look himself. It's already very swollen around the knee.

"You should arrange for an alibi," he offers through the gritted teeth.

"Skiing accident," Bruce says. "I'll let Alfred know. He likes planning those out."

Jim almost says something about Alfred's gleeful tendencies for planning the most elaborate scams, but he catches himself in time. Not tonight, he's not going to dismiss this one, not going to laugh about it. Bruce frowns as he's watching him, eyes following his steady work with the bandages.

He finishes, and straightens up, grimacing just a little when his knees protest. Bruce looks up, eyes fixed on Jim's face, and Jim raises his hand before Bruce can even start, before he even says Jim's name, because if he hears that now, in that tone of voice he knows is coming, soft and just on the edge of broken, he won't be able to say what he has to say. What he needs to say.

"I told you to stay out of it."

Bruce shakes his head. "No, you didn't. You said to stay out unless it was necessary to go in."

For god's sake, he's not going to argue about semantics. And also, he's pretty sure that's not what he said, actually. "Not the point, Bruce."

"What's the point, then, Jim?" There it is, a responding flash of irritation. For a reason he can't really pinpoint, he's glad of it. It'll get easier to continue, if Bruce is not looking at him confusedly, almost pleadingly.

He wills himself to keep his voice as even as possible, and mostly fails. "It was police business, Bruce. Once again. And we could have managed without you. Damn it, we probably would have." He has to believe in this. No matter how much of his hope is laid on Bruce, how much he needs to trust in him, relies on him. When he closes his eyes he can still see Nicole's scared eyes, mirror reflection of Jimmy's, and Barbara's. But he can let this go on.

"Somehow, it never bothered you before," Bruce says hotly, anger colouring his voice now.

"Before, I wasn't obliged to arrest you on sight. Before, I could help you out as much as you could help me. Before, you didn't have to worry about cops shooting you. For god's sake, Bruce, everything is different."

They're standing too close now, and Jim's hands are curled into fists, tightly, his fingernails grazing his skin. He can pretty much tell Bruce is doing the same, his breathing quick and shallow.

"Even if it is," Bruce says, and his voice sounds alien, distant, not like Bruce, and not even like Batman. It sounds resigned. "What does it matter?"

Jim's fist hits Bruce squarely on the jaw without any conscious thought behind the action. If anything, he's surprised by this himself.

Bruce steps back, his whole body tensing as he talks himself out of the instinctive response. As Jim's still staring at him, Bruce's hand goes to his jaw, fingers lightly running along the already reddened area. He seems less shocked than Jim is, his eyes closing for a second before he smiles lightly. "Long time coming, I suppose," he says.

Jim would like to smile back, step closer, apologise, or just kiss him and forget all this, but he can't. His hand hurts like hell, but it's a welcomed pain, it lets him concentrate on something else than the dull feeling threatening to overcome him. They stand still for a long moment, both unsure on how to follow up what happened. Finally, Jim's shoulders slump, and he looks away.

"Let yourself out, will you?" he says dully, and looks away, hesitates before turning and making his way to his bedroom. He expects to hear his name, expects to be called and stopped, but it doesn't come, and so he stops on his own, hand out to rest on the doorframe, steadying him. "It matters, Bruce," he says and has to push himself away from the doors to continue, his legs heavy as if he was carrying a deadweight.

He doesn't bother with changing, just slumps over to the bed, and concentrates on listening to the heavy rainfall. For once, he wishes Bruce wouldn't listen to him, but would emerge from the shadows, silently joining him in bed. It doesn't happen, and finally, the rhythmical staccato on the windowpane lulls him into sleep.

*

He wakes up with a dull pain in his neck, from sleeping in a wrong position. It's the bed, he thinks, he's no longer used to it.

Outside the window, the sky is clear, not marred by a single cloud. But the air is fresh, the almost unnatural heat is gone. A good thing, Jim didn't care much for it. Even the rain was preferable, at least that was a normal thing in Gotham.

Reluctantly, he gets up and pads to the kitchen, rubbing at his neck in a futile effort to work out the kinks. On his way, he pauses, and comes to a halt in the living room. Bruce is asleep on the couch, still sitting, head thrown back, his breathing calm and even. He has put on most of his suit back, just the cowl and the gloves beside him, and Jim grimaces in sympathy; he feels uncomfortable once he wakes up after falling asleep in his shirt and tie, he can't begin to imagine how it would feel with an almost full body armor.

Jim hesitates for a briefest of moments, then moves forward, putting away the cowl and the gloves, then gently starting on undoing all the clasps on the suit. By now, he has become quite efficient in that. Bruce mutters something, and his eyelids twitch, but his eyes remain closed. He really is not a morning person.

"Come on, up," Jim says, easing off the the upper part of the suit, and Bruce obeys without really waking up. He just shifts, moving closer to Jim, arm across Jim's stomach. Jim lets himself relax, close his eyes and drift off to sleep for few more moments.

It doesn't take long till he wakes up again, but somehow, these few minutes were more restful than the whole night. It might have something to do with the comforting warmth beside him, but he's not going into that train of thoughts, it's leading to mellowness, and he's definitely not doing that. Bruce shifts next to him, and Jim opens his eyes, looking down. Bruce's eyes are still unfocused under that black paint, lips parched, and there's a visible bruise on his jaw. He looks like hell, more so than ever, and yet Jim can't look away.

"Coffee?" Bruce says, voice raspy and still half-asleep, and Jim laughs, a bit too hard than is warranted, but at least it breaks the slowly setting tension.

"Morning to you too," he mutters.

Bruce nods, slowly, still watching him, and then he's moving, licking his lips before they cover Jim's, unrelenting, coaxing Jim's mouth open, and then kissing him even harder, to the point where Jim groans and shivers. Only then does Bruce move away, breathless.

"Morning."

"Coffee," Jim agrees, standing up, going to the kitchen to start the coffee maker. Bruce trails after him, yawning. Jim throws him a glare, then yawns by contagion. "Great, now you got me started," he mutters, reaching for the mugs, watching the coffee maker and willing it to work faster.

Bruce leans against the counter, gaze fixed on the tiles, as if they were the most fascinating thing he had ever seen. "Jim," he says quietly, and Jim turns, shaking his head.

"Don't," he warns.

Bruce rolls his eyes. "Can you for once shut up and accept the apology?"

Jim almost smiles, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly, but something twists in his stomach, and he doesn't quite manage the grin. "You don't have to..." he says halfheartedly.

"Yes, I do," Bruce sighs. "I should have known it affects you, too. And I know I've been..." the coffee maker pings, interrupting him.

"Thank god," Jim mutters, then slowly fills the coffee mugs, handing Bruce one of them. "Apology accepted, please don't continue. And for the record, I'm sorry too," he adds, gesturing to Bruce's jaw.

"Long time coming," Bruce repeats, shrugging, then takes a long, slow sip of his coffee, smiling almost happily. Jim rolls his eyes. Sometimes he really thinks he comes second to the coffee.

Well, third. There's always Gotham, of course.

"I'll have to meet with the officers who had seen you yesterday. Make sure it stays between us. I'm certain Stephens put a fear of... well, himself, into them, but I'll have to make sure they understand the situation."

"What is the situation?" Bruce asks carefully, and Jim takes a moment before answering, looking straight at him.

"Batman is innocent," he says, and raises his mug slightly to stop Bruce from saying anything. "No. I know you've waited for the next crisis, to sweep in and save the day." He pauses, but Bruce doesn't correct him. Much like he thought. "It might be easier this way. But it's been too long, Bruce. Maybe it's time for a different approach."

Bruce is silent for a long moment, then, slowly, he nods. "Alright."

Jim smiles.

 

Jim doesn't really have a plan. He supposes it's painfully obvious, but Bruce mercifully doesn't comment on it. What Jim does know is, they're not waiting for the next great disaster, it's time to do whatever is in their power to clear Batman's name, and if they have to start slow, they will.

In the afternoon following what Bruce starts calling The Punch with too much amusement for Jim's liking, Stephens and the three other officers who had witnessed the previous night's events are invited into the commissioner's office and told plainly, in no uncertain terms, what exactly happened over a year ago, with Harvey Dent, Gordon's family, and Batman.

Jim watches their faces for the reactions, judges carefully the pauses and wide eyed surprises, and hopes he won't regret his decision. Slowly, their faces smooth out in acceptance, and Stephens grumbles that he could have used that particular information months ago.

It sets Jim into such a good mood he's even happy to deal with the paperwork for the rest of the day. Well, for about half an hour of the rest of the day, but then he sets into trying to figure out the roster and how to change it to transfer people in and out of the Batman task force, and it gives him a headache.

When Penny comes in at six with the last coffee she made for him before her workday ends, he thinks he almost has it all figured out, but then he notices he'd be short of people on night shift in the Narrows, and that just won't do. Frustrated, he tears up the sixth sheet of paper, and misses the bin by a good few inches. He sighs, and takes off his glasses. He can shoot bulls-eyes on the firing range any day, but after hours of paperwork his vision is blurry. Maybe it's time for new glasses, he thinks, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Long day?" Bruce asks from the doorway, and Jim smiles slightly. Not that he doesn't miss Batman coming in through the window, but doors do have their advantages.

"All days are long," he says, and pushes his chair slightly away from the desk, for a good measure throwing an irritated look at the papers covering his desk.

Bruce closes the doors behind him and crosses the room, perching at the side of the desk, looking at Jim with some concern. "Are you sure you want to..." he starts, and Jim rolls his eyes.

"Yes. I do reserve the right to complain about the paperwork, though," he warns, then sighs, turning in the chair to face Bruce. It spins a little too much and he puts his hand out on the desk to steady himself. "I called Mayor Garcia today."

"Did he die of shock?" Bruce asks pleasantly, and Jim glares at him briefly.

"I don't always avoid him."

"No, only when it's about budget, public appearances, parties, board meetings, any sort of..."

"Done?" Jim says a little bit too loudly.

Bruce grins back. The bruising is almost invisible now, and Jim wonders how many bruises he had failed to notice before he knew the secret, how many other clues. It's really not a comforting thought.

When he looks back up, Bruce's smile had been replaced by a frown. "Whatever you are thinking about, Jim," Bruce says quietly, "you should stop."

Jim shakes his head at him, but Bruce just slides smoothly along the edge of the desk, pushing the paperwork aside, until he's right in front of Jim, looking down, his eyes slightly clouded. "Your shift has ended..." he makes a show of looking at his watch, "seven minutes ago. Learn when to relax, Jim."

Jim laughs at that. "I've heard a saying, once. Something about kitchen utensils? A pan... no, a pot. And possibly a kettle."

"Cross off comedian of your list of possible vocations if you ever have enough of the law enforcement," Bruce mutters, and reaches to the knot of Jim's tie, undoing it almost painfully slowly. "And I do know how to relax, I assure you."

"Normally, I would argue the point," Jim offers, his voice a little hoarse when Bruce's fingertip runs slowly down Jim's neck. "But it's been a long day."

Bruce nods, smiling, but his eyes are serious. "Small steps, Jim."


End file.
